


Bloom, CPA

by chaosmanor



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Challenge Response, Crack, M/M, Superheroes, Taxes, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-13
Updated: 2007-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 11:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosmanor/pseuds/chaosmanor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even superheroes worry about audits</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloom, CPA

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crumblingwalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumblingwalls/gifts).



> Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
> 
> The challenge was to write a fic about taxation, using the words accrual, withholding, exempt(ion) and trust, with bonus points if the word count is exactly 1040.

The man opposite Orlando peered back at him through thick glasses and handed over the expanding file nervously.

“I indexed the financial activity by month,” the man said. “And separated the receipts from the payslips and bank statements.”

Orlando pulled the manila folder for July out of the expanding file and spread the contents across his desk. The receipts were organised by date, clipped to pages detailing the deductability of the expenses, all the information filled out in a spidery hand. Voluntary superannuation contributions were catalogued, the accrual of additional retirement funds filling Orlando’s heart with quiet joy.

Viggo Mortensen, that was the name on the payslips, though Orlando’s appointment book had contained another, more anonymous, name.

Mr. Mortensen cleared his throat nervously, and said, “Is everything in order? Have I made a mistake with the exemptions?”

Mr. Mortensen’s suit was crumpled, the fabric across the knees shiny with wear, and he fidgeted with the briefcase on his lap.

The trouble with his mild-mannered-accountant performance was that Orlando was actually a mild-mannered-accountant himself, and he was not conned.

“Your deductions,” Orlando said, picking up the top sheet. “Some of them are not going to pass the tax department’s stringent requirements.” He smiled reassuringly. “They say that the only people a super hero has no secrets from are his doctor and his tax accountant.”

Mr. Mortensen took his glasses off, revealing blue eyes to make Paul Newman weep, and he nodded, letting his nervous twitches melt away.

“That’s better, Mr. Mortensen,” Orlando said. “Now…”

“Please, call me Viggo.” His voice was rougher, huskier and deeper, and Orlando’s pulse jumped a little.

“Viggo,” Orlando said. “You are going to have to trust me.”

Viggo nodded, curt and sharp, and his suit didn’t seem to fit so poorly anymore.

“Spinach, yes,” Orlando said, marking an invoice with a tick in pencil. “Tailoring of clothes, yes.” Another tick. “Now, about these handcuffs…”

“They’re necessary for my work,” Viggo said. “For detaining captured suspects.”

“I know, and the tax department knows, that the state police force supplies you with your basic law enforcement supplies, including restraints. Is there some problem with the handcuffs provided?”

Orlando looked up from the paperwork and pushed his own glasses up his nose a little. Viggo looked a little uncertain, and Orlando wondered what he was withholding.

“They are not chromed,” Viggo said.

“Not chromed? Do you have a contact allergy to steel?”

Viggo shifted a little uneasily in his chair, making the vinyl squeak. “No, it’s purely aesthetic.”

Orlando blinked. “You prefer the look of chromed handcuffs?”

Viggo nodded, and Orlando looked down and drew a small cross beside that deduction with his pencil.

“What about the $276.78 you spent at a leather supply store?”

“That’s part of my costume.”

Orlando lifted his gaze, and Viggo pushed aside his limp rag of a tie and pulled his shirt front open, revealing bands of black leather connected to a ring in the middle of his broad chest.

“Hmmm.” Orlando had doubts about the tax department being particularly understanding about leather harnesses, but Viggo’s chest was solidly muscled, dark hair curling around the polished metal ring in a way that did things to Orlando’s libido, so he wasn’t prepared to dispute the issue right then.

The final receipt for July made Orlando blink. Frog Man had managed to persuade the tax department that the talcum powder he used daily to ease himself into his full length latex suit was a consumable, but Orlando wasn’t at all sure that some control freak in the taxation department would consider a quart of lube a reasonable occupational expense for a super hero.

Orlando leaned back in his office chair. “Out of curiosity, what’s your super hero name?”

Viggo’s glasses clattered onto Orlando’s desk, his briefcase skittered into the corner, and he leapt to his feet. A flick of his head, and his hair dropped out of its coif to fall across one eye, and the crumpled suit and shirt were yanked off, coming undone at strategic seams—that would be the expensive tailoring—to reveal tanned skin, a full harness and painted-on leather pants.

“The Stud!”

* * *

Orlando’s office was purposely built to meet the needs of his clients; fire-retardant mat at the door for flamers, extra high ceilings for giants, waterproof wall and floor treatments with easy-wipe-clean surfaces, and reinforced furniture. He’d never been more glad, especially for the reinforced furniture.

Viggo retrieved one of Orlando’s shoes from the light fitting, and used the heel to reattach the leg to Orlando’s desk, while Orlando crawled across the office floor, collecting receipts and bank statements.

He hurt in the most delicious ways; mouth tingling, inner thighs aching, and feel of crisp cotton business shirt across his chafed nipples made concentrating almost impossible.

Viggo squatted down in front of Orlando, holding out a sheaf of papers. “I think this is all of them.”

His hand steadied Orlando, helping him to his feet.

“Gosh,” Orlando said, not resisting Viggo’s assistance back to his chair. “Gosh.”

“So what do you think?” Viggo asked, sitting back in the client’s chair, across the cracked desk from Orlando.

Orlando didn’t think, not right at that moment, and only years of post-graduate study enabled him to slide the paperwork back into its folders.

“About what?” Orlando asked, fumbling his glasses back onto his nose.

“My tax.”

“Oh.” Orlando’s pencil had snapped in two, but the point was still intact. “Your taxes are a mess; you’re going to need me to go through everything carefully if you want to avoid an audit.”

There was something wrong with Orlando’s spectacles, something smearing the lenses, so he took them off again and wiped them on the front of his shirt.

“Would an audit be bad?” Viggo asked, relaxing back into his chair, spreading his legs, looking so fucking hot that even without his glasses on, Orlando could clearly see his super power.

“You should do everything possible to avoid an audit,” Orlando said. “The tax department is a very large organisation, and it may not be possible, even for you, to persuade every single employee in that department not to audit you. Much more time efficient for me to prepare your return advantageously instead.”


End file.
